


carry the fire

by openended



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Flashbacks, Gen, Post-Killing Joke, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 18:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6205324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>of all the myriad things that could set her off, doorbells are the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	carry the fire

Doorbells.

Of all things, doorbells are the problem.

Not gunshots or clowns or face paint. Not silhouetted men. Not coffee, and not even that apartment.

Doorbells. And camera flashes.

(Hawaiian shirts aren’t too great for her sanity, either.)

***

She remembers everything with crystal clear precision, like a camera went off in her brain.

(The irony of that isn’t lost on her.)

The therapist’s mouth twists, a failed attempt to hide surprise.

She pushes on her wheels and rolls a quarter inch forward, a quarter inch back. She tells it again, the story of that night, and it’s exactly the same as the first time.

She tells the story over and over again at every session for a month. It’s always the same. _Minds_ , the therapist says, _sometimes try to protect us; it’s why a lot of trauma patients can’t remember what happened._

She smiles, as patronizing as the therapist’s words were. Eidetic memory is a bitch. 

A quarter inch forward, a quarter inch back. A mindless tic. Something to do with her hands while she tries to make the hour go faster.

Before, she would’ve tapped her toes.

***

The doorbell rings and her heart nearly stops.

_Smile. Flash. Bang._

Adrenaline rushes through her, buzzing along her veins. Something metallic, almost bitter, tingles across her tongue. A roaring sound fills her ears, like the waves of the ocean only a thousand times louder and angrier. Time slows, the world tilts.

_Smile. Flash. Bang._

“I got it,” her father says, mistaking her stillness for inability. 

_No!_ she screams, but no words come out. She’s paralyzed, can’t move.

( _more than usual_ , a little voice pipes up from the corner.)

Her father answers the door. 

_Smile. Flash. Bang._

It’s the pizza guy. Double pepperoni.

***

She calls Dick. She needs to talk to someone who isn’t her father, yet another therapist, or any number of food and package delivery drivers she surprises by opening the door before they can ring the bell.

He doesn’t answer, and she hangs up without leaving a message.

What would she say, anyway? _Hey, it’s Babs. We haven’t talked in a while, just wanted to see how things are with you. Give me a call when you have the chance._

(Better than what she’d say if he answered.

_I feel like the world’s imploding in on me. Everything’s moving too fast, except for me, I’m moving too slow. My head’s spinning out of control, I can’t stop reliving that night - why can’t I just forget like everyone else. I’m angry all the time, except when I’m sad. I’m a fucking mess. I couldn’t even watch the Oscars, for all the flashing cameras._

_I don’t know how not to be Batgirl_.)

Best that she got his voicemail.

***

Therapist #6, and she’s considering calling in a favor with one of the Arkham doctors. Just get her a prescription for something so she can sleep without nightmares, something so her heart doesn’t speed up every time she sees a misplaced tourist wearing a gaudy tropical shirt and a stupid hat. They all know what happened, she could probably get away with nothing more than a phone call.

She fidgets. A quarter inch forward, a quarter inch back. Therapist #6 has plants in the window, bright green leaves, healthy and full, but no flowers.

She found Therapist #6 through Alfred, somehow. She hopes Bruce goes to therapy. She hopes Batman doesn’t.

A quarter inch forward, a quarter inch back.

A car drives past outside and the bright Gotham sun glints off its windshield. The angles aren’t in her favor, and the glare flashes into her eye.

_Smile. Flash. Bang._

She flinches. Therapist #6 stands up and closes the blinds.

“I was Batgirl,” she says. Confidentiality applies even to superheroes.

Therapist #6 nods and sits back down. “And now you’re not.”

“Now I’m not.”

“So who do you want to be?”


End file.
